Darkest Night
by The Goth Detectiv
Summary: Shiro never escapes from the Galra and becomes their greatest weapon rated M because it's gonna get dirty Please enjoy! Leave a comment if you want this to continue!


The room had vaulted ceilings with a broad window that stretched nearly as high. Shiro had never been in a room this exquisite, despite it's clear simplicity. His cell had been much smaller, and this large amount of space made him anxious. The walls and floor were black; the curtains, the bedspread, and the furniture too. Everything was shrouded in darkness, as if it had never seen the sun.

The door slide open silently, like a cat slinking off to make mischief. Light pooled in from the opening, casting a long shadow inside. Shiro turned to see who it was. The figure stepped in and the door closed. The light now came solely from the window and bathed everything in tantric purples and reds. He recognized those burning yellow eyes.

"Have you behaved, Takashi?"

His first night out of the cell was rough. He was uses to his small metal bed, the guards at every door watching him, the routine of it all, no matter how much it hurt him.

The first night in his new room was the day his arm was complete.

The day they took his arm felt like a death. The grief had consumed him.

The table was cold against his bare skin. Frigid. There were drugs running through his veins. Poison. It was the only way he'd lay still. His mind, his nerves... they were still fully intact. A roar belted from his mouth when the knife went in. This was not pain. This was something beyond that.

He was monitored carefully. He lay in his cell for three days. No food was consumed. No lashing provoked him. There were scientists and doctors and magicians streaming in and out, poked and prodded and pinched and postulated. He was unmoved. By the end of the third day, Shiro welcomed death like a long lost lover. But it did not come to him.

Zarkon came instead.

It did not matter to him that Zarkon was there. Shiro didn't care what was to happen. He was broken. Numb. And nothing the Galra emperor could do would change that.  
Zarkon picked his body up off of the floor and laid him into the tiny bed. Shiro made no acknowledgment to this change. His eyes remained listless and vacant as an empty field without wind. Zarkon stood, towering over him. And when he spoke, it was the great depths of the ocean themselves speaking.  
"You are a soldier of Galra now. You are stronger than this, Takashi Shirogane. You have been given a second chance here, a gift. It would be wise of you not to waste it."  
His voice was again a deep rumbling as before, but Shiro found it comforting now. That night had felt like a dream. It wasn't. Zarkon returned more. Shiro began training with Galra soldiers while him new arm underwent modifications. Training was not ideal. Much time was spent pit again five or six opponents, dodging, running, taking a hit. And another. And another. And when that was over, they weren't through with him. Blood running down his face and sweat slick on his skin, they made a mockery of him, showing him time and time again he was beneath them. Subservient. A slave.

"Have you behaved, Takashi?"  
Shiro had lost track of time being imprisoned, the only method of measure was his hair. It had become ragged and outgrown. That morning, before his regular visit to mechanics, someone had come to cut it. And it felt like everything was starting over again, in a way. There was so much newness, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He ran his fingers through the shaven part in the back. The stress of the entire ordeal had given him a fair amount of grey, not that it mattered much.  
He wasn't sure why all this was happening; the arm, this room, Zarkon...  
Why was Zarkon doing this?  
Shiro turned at the rumbling voice. He had been lost in thought in front of the window. Looking back, the luminance of those yellow eyes burned through the blackness. The emperor moved almost elegantly, despite the brutish and destructive nature. He stood next to Shiro, placed his hands behind his back, and looked out into the galaxy.  
"Yes, Zarkon. You know this. I train with the soldiers. I keep maintenance on my arm. I do what is asked of me. Why do you ask?"  
Zarkon did not blink. He continued to gaze. "I would hope you'd be truthful with me on your own."

"I am," Shiro answered quickly, almost too eager. He glanced quickly at Zarkon, but back to the window.

Low rumbling again. Zarkon was smiling now. "There is something I would like you to have."

Shiro's brow knit in confusion. He turned to face the emperor. "And what is that?"

Zarkon held something in his massive hands; a shimmering circle of silver. "For you to wear." The yellow eyes bore into his own. "Around your neck."

His lips parted, uneasy, his eyes searching for some answer. Shiro had no answer with words, but acted instead. He took it from Zakron, the collar meeting his neck and reforming around it. His heart rate had picked up and his chest rose and fell with an alarming speed. Why was he doing this? Why had he done it? Why didn't he refuse? Zakron's eyes followed every movement with precision. Rolling his shoulders back, Shiro stood proudly despite his uncertainty.

"I am yours, Emperor Zakron."


End file.
